


On that terrible day

by Nurrenbri



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Goblin Slayer (Anime), Goblin Slayer (Manga)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Dimension Travel, Fantasy, Gen, Genocide, Happy Ending, Interplanetary Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:29:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28817829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nurrenbri/pseuds/Nurrenbri
Summary: When it comes to goblins, all means are good. Particularly effective.
Kudos: 1





	On that terrible day

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [В час беды](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/744528) by Nurrenbri. 



Do you know what the secret is? The pus! © Vyatka Sas

The new world began for him with a cave. 

It would be more correct to say — from the burrow. 

Even more correct — nest.

An avalanche of green-skinned, goat-eyed, snub-nosed dwarfs, not at all surprised by his appearance, hit him with the sea surf. The howl of his trusty saw-sword rang out, and fountains of blood shot up. 

Not hi blood. 

The creatures that lived here were only a threat in the pack. And not for him. However, the sword alone was not suitable for this battle.

Too slow. 

On the left arm of the newcomer, clad in the armor of a long-vanished people, was a tubular nozzle that glittered ominously in the light of the campfire. The next moment, a thick stream of oily fire shot out of it. The bronze-clad figure spun, raining fire on the hoarsely screaming Greenskins, parting those who got too close with stingy swings of its howling sword. Among the shrieking, flaming bodies, a hunched gray back appeared — the chief, as the most intelligent of the pack, judged that escape was the best solution for him in such a situation. In the next instant, his head was blown to pieces, and the thunderous echo of a gunshot rang through the cave.

It was all over. Here and there, agonizing creatures with charred, bursting flesh twitched — they had only minutes to live. Out of old habit, he did not give the charred a merciful death. Putting the handgun in his inventory, he walked around the camp, rummaging through the bales — another old habit, on the verge of another mental breakdown. Out of the corner of his ear (or inside himself), he could hear the distant mutterings of the Puppeteer — or the part of his shattered mind that had replaced him. His feet carried him to the garbage heap of the parking lot — and at the sight that opened before him, he growled in unison with the voice of the Puppeteer. 

"Like before. Only worse." 

The anger that filled him burst out in a mighty Shout, and the pile of torn bodies turned into another smoking bonfire. The outlander turned — the lenses of the viewing slits glinted blue above the impenetrable faceplate-and ran at a rhino-like jog to the surface, barely paying attention to the occasional mutter from somewhere above him. 

The locals called the creatures " goblins." The goblins of his home world would have spat in their eyes for such a comparison, despite the fact that they had little contact with humans.

He had learned enough to realize the unnatural nature of the local world order. Of the local "civilized" residents, only a few realized this problem as acutely. And he was going to one of them. 

He climbed out of the cave in the dead of night, when both moons were already out in the sky-just like in his home world — and ran in a fast, clanking sprint along the path that was barely visible among the bushes. 

Somewhere ahead was the city. 

Somewhere ahead was the one he needed.

***

"Are You A Goblin Slayer?" 

They didn't notice him coming, which caused a young girl in a blue and white suit to jump away from him with a startled squeak. Her companion, a tall warrior in dirty leather armor and a steel helmet with a barred visor, showed great composure and simply turned around. Before him stood a man not much shorter than himself, clad in a strange heavy suit of armor that glittered like yellow bronze. There was no face to be seen — instead, there was a sharp, impenetrable helmet shield and lenses of unknown material that shone with a fierce blue light. On his belt, in a special loop, rested a strange sword, instead of the blade of which a continuous row of gleaming teeth flowed under a quiet rattle. They were standing in the lobby of the local Adventurers ' Guild, and many of the adventurers were openly staring at the newcomer and, in particular, his sword: beginners with curiosity, experienced with a mixture of horror and disgust, obviously imagining the wound that this weapon could leave.

"Yes," the man in the barred helmet finally said. ”I'm A Goblin Slayer. ”

A uniformed girl (probably one of the Guild's employees) tried to pry into their conversation, more out of curiosity than professional necessity. Her pleading smile suddenly fell off the face when the stranger gave her a look. Even through the lenses, she could feel it like an icy draft. There was death in the stranger's eyes — the death of everyone around him, and hers first. ”Stay out of it,” that look said. ”Stay out of it, or I'll kill you before you shit yourself. Faster than you can pray to your gods in the hope that I'll settle on you…”

"I'd like to talk to you." — The stranger turned his gaze to the Goblin Slayer as the Guild worker retreated as fast as her suddenly wobbly legs could carry her. "It's urgent and important. 

"Goblins?" Slayer asked without much hope. 

"Goblins.” The heavy crested helmet bowed in a nod. ”But I don't really want to discuss it here. Can we have some privacy?”

*** 

The Goblin Slayer's companion, who introduced herself as a Priestess, was the only one of them who did not cause the Guild employees excessive nervousness, so it was she who had to ask about the available rooms for a private meeting. The room was found quickly — more than they needed, but neither the Slayer nor the stranger was confused. "By the way, you can call me Dragonslayer" he said as soon as the door to the room closed behind them. ”I have other names, but this isn't about.”

Sitting down in a creaking chair (the sword, oddly enough, remained on his belt and did not interact with the furniture in any way), Dragonslayer took up his helmet. The priestess sighed in surprise — behind the hard blue lenses, the pleasant face of an elderly man was hidden, which was not at all marred by the abundant wrinkles, nor the scattered scars, nor the half-erased black spiral of a tattoo on the entire right cheek. He was obviously not young, but the gray had barely touched the fine stubble of his long-shaved hair or the neat black henriquatre. His gray eyes, under thin, lined brows, were steady and steady, but not threatening. Their eyes met for a moment, and she could have sworn he winked at her before turning his full attention to the Slayer sitting across from her.

"Well, let's get started," he began. ”I know that your name is not an empty phrase, that no one in this world is doing more than you to contain the threat of ... greenskins.” PriestessPriestess started to protest, but held back. ”But I also know and understand something else. You're not coping. No matter how hard you try, no matter how many people you kill, you can't stop this attack right now. Besides-let's face it — you don't last forever. Your struggle is futile, and you know it.”

"I know," said the Goblin Slayer. "But asking me to back off is a waste of time.”

”Who said anything about retreat?” The dragon-slayer laughed, an unpleasant barking sound that made the Priestess shiver. "Not exactly me, I was talking about something else. That you're not trying hard enough. You've been taught to use your imagination, but you keep wasting it on small things. The Greenskins are afraid of you, but that's all. You are a threat to the life of a single creature, a tribe at most — but not to the race at all.”

"Say it directly if you have something to say," the Goblin Slayer interrupted sharply. 

Dragonslayer put on a smile that would have been best described as "lousy," leaned over and whispered: " I know how to destroy ALL goblins." 

”How?" Slayer gasped, almost on par with the Priestess. 

"Oh, leave the' how ' to me. " Dragonslayer leaned back in his chair, still smiling unpleasantly. "It's the right way, just like I got here in the first place. But what about you? What will happen to you when there is not a single go — ah, Oblivion, not a single goblin? What will you do then, Goblin Slayer? Will you find your place in the world, find peace... or will you have nothing to live for after that? That's why I came to you first. Think about it…" 

The Goblin Slayer didn't hesitate. 

"The goblins must be destroyed.” A bright red spark glinted from behind the barred visor. "Nothing else matters.”

Dragonslayer closed his eyes and sat motionless for a few seconds. When he opened them, his pupils shone with a cold blue flame. The priestess, looking from him to the Goblin Slayer with a startled expression, could already clearly see the red flames beating behind the grated visor. 

”So be it," Dragonslayer growled, putting on his helmet and tossing a folded map onto the table. ”Come back if you don't change your mind. Yes-take the goblin with you.” He turned around, preparing to leave, but apparently doubting that he would be understood correctly, he clarified: ”Living.”

*** 

The Goblin Slayer did not change his mind — he appeared in the grove marked on the map exactly the next day. He came alone, except for the wriggling and screaming bundle on his shoulder. 

"Cub," he said by way of greeting, dropping the bundle to the ground. "Good enough?" 

An unusual fire elemental flew past him, skirting the edge of the clearing. However, the Goblin Slayer wasn't interested in such things, at least not until they began to annoy him. 

The Dragonslayer stepped away from the bubbling bronze cauldron in the center of the clearing, above which a greenish cloud of vapor swirled, and picked up the bundle. The startled eyes on the green snout met the blue light of the helmet's lenses, and the little goblin squealed and wet himself. 

"That'll do," Dragonslayer nodded, carrying the struggling goblin back to the cauldron. ”You can go now.”

”I want to see it." The Goblin Slayer moved closer. 

"At your own risk," Dragonslayer shrugged, returning to the cauldron and removing his helmet. The Goblin slayer wouldn't have seen anything anyway — the third one had no place in this ritual. 

Dragonslayer concentrated, exhaled, and leaned over the cauldron, inhaling the miasma that emanated from it. 

A wave of sharp, putrid freshness hit the brain, ran a fever to the tips of the fingers, and a tight ball of nausea curled up in the stomach. Ghostly rats danced around in the mist, gigantic, mangy, with short stumps of tails. Almost like the first time, except that there was no smiling catman in a turban hanging around. 

"He is the pus in the wound," the Dragonslayer recalled his hoarse voice. "Oh, proper ones curl their noses, but it's pus that drinks foul humors and restores the blood." 

As if in response to that memory, another voice spoke — also in his head, but not in his thoughts. 

"So we meet again, mortal. Your decisions still intrigue me, especially the decision to summon me in this world. I'd think you'd want to establish my cult here, but that's not possible, and we both know why. So why did you summon me?" 

”I need something, Warder, " the Dragonslayer's voice was firm despite his nausea. ”I need one of your 'gifts'." 

"I have already given you my gift, insolent one... The debts are paid, and charity is the lot of the temple servants." 

"You know there's one debt left, demon.” Dragonslayer almost coughed, but held back. "And I'm not asking you for a piece of jewelry to add to my collection. I ask for a gift. A gift for this world."

There was silence. 

"A gift —" the demon finally said. "Oh, you mean that gift… Of course, I can't refuse, especially since it's my duty... and my good. Which one do you want?" 

"Just for them. For creatures like him." The Dragonslayer picked up the bundle containing the silent goblin. 

"Throw it in the cauldron!" The Warden ordered. The goblin screamed one last time, writhing like a damned thing, and then the green slime closed over him, bubbling and hissing. A moment later, a geyser of thick emerald vapor shot out of the cauldron (Dragonslayer barely managed to jump away). It rose higher and higher, spreading out in the sky like a giant blob. Thunder rumbled in the distance. 

"It's done," came a voice from the geyser. "Now go. Order will be restored." 

With a final bow, the Dragonslayer disembodied the fire elemental guarding him and strode away. Goblin Slayer rose to meet him. 

"Are you finished?" Are the goblins dead?" he asked. 

Turning to him, the Dragonslayer smiled and put on his helmet. 

"You'll still have time to burn a couple of nests, " he rasped from under his helmet. "But hurry up if you want to. For I'll warrant that in a year your goblins will be history." 

Above their heads, the first drops of rain began to rustle in the trees.

*** 

In the kingdom, this sudden rain was remembered for a long time. A menacing green cloud hung over the fields and forests, towns and farms, constantly raining heavy, oily drops on the ground. A malarial swampy smell rose from the unpleasantly frosted streams and puddles, settling on the skin like a sticky film. Priests and magicians were seriously alarmed by this phenomenon and its possible consequences, rumors multiplied among the common people and panic grew. 

The next day, however, the sky was as clear as ever. The puddles were drying up, the wind had blown the smell away, and apart from a few cases of mild indigestion among those who had dared to try the rainwater, all was well. 

A day later, the farmers came across the first goblin corpses. Gray-faced, with swollen tongues protruding from their snarling mouths, and covered with stinking scarlet boils — according to the trackers, a raid aimed at a nearby village, but did not reach it just a couple of miles. The corpses were not decomposing as usual, and it was impossible to tell how long ago it had happened — or what exactly had happened. A group of adventurers followed their footsteps to a den in an abandoned mine. The heroes were well prepared, as the number of goblin bodies suggested that the nest must have been significant, and carelessness in preparation could cost their group their lives.

The nest was indeed huge. 

A huge burial ground. 

A monstrous stench, uncharacteristic even for goblins, was already beginning to be felt as they approached the mine, mixed with another, vaguely familiar one, but none of the adventurers then recognized it. They wrapped rags around their faces and went down the shaft. It was damp inside, the water squelched underfoot, and through the masks there was a disturbing, pungent smell, such as sometimes comes from the bed of a fever patient… As they rounded another bend, they almost tripped over the hobgoblin's outstretched legs. The giant sat against the wall with his head hanging down and his long, swollen tongue hanging out on his chest, his gray skin decorated with boils that exuded the stench of rotten fish. He was dead — and judging by the piece of rat meat in his hand, he hadn't been dead very long. The excited heroes moved on, and after a few steps they found themselves in the cavernous hall where the camp was located. The torches and bonfires had gone out, burned out, but the coals were still hot. Nearby lay prepared armfuls of firewood. Heaps of goblin junk, bones, crude weapons. And everywhere were the bodies of goblins and hobs, their tongues hanging out, their skin graying, and boils that seemed to thicken the air of the cave by the minute. And puddles of oily frosted water… 

Magicians and alchemists unanimously confirmed that the goblins died no more than a day after the strange rain. A frightening weather phenomenon brought death to the green-skinned infection. One plague devoured another, and only two people in the whole kingdom knew where this deliverance came from. Many years later, the disease that destroyed the goblins will be given many names — the Goblin Plague, the Breath of Orcbolg, the Green Reaper… Many years later, goblins will be honored with a page in the writings of extinct species, where the truth will be hidden behind a bouquet of near-scientific nonsense and superstition. Many years later, some will purse their lips skeptically and claim that goblins are a myth, fiction, old wives ' tales; fortunately, the bonfires that have not been extinguished for months, in which the corpses of dead goblins were dumped, did a great job of destroying evidence, and the remaining stuffed animals are so easy to declare a fake ... And did anyone do such stuffed animals then? 

Many years later, as in the first days after the Plague Rain, no one will regret the goblins.

*** 

The one who called himself a Dragon Slayer in this world did not think about this future. He walked lightly toward the mountains, sometimes humming to himself the favorite songs of his native world — about the overconfident hero who lost his red head, about the ancient heroes who slain the terrible dragon, and about himself, the hero who comes to banish evil in the hour of trouble, if only he calls. The Puppeteer's voice in his head was silent — the job was done, and he was on his own for a while. Freedom in a new world, full of treasures, adventures and battles... 

Dragonslayer smiled rapaciously. 

He'd heard there were dragons here, too.


End file.
